Saving Sammy, The Boy King
by ohcomely23
Summary: A series of one-shots, all part of the same story. Dean's going to save his brother if it's the last thing he does. Hurt/Limp!Sam, Guilty/Protective!Dean, and two brothers just being brothers. Warnings for profanity, violence, and a lot of angst.
1. Chapter 1

When Dean finds him, Sammy is hanging from an exposed pipe, his wrists raw and bleeding, rope tuffs splintered in the battered skin. It's been two days, two hellish days, and those days were a damned repeat of when the Benders took his brother. It hasn't even been two months since that night, and if this is the norm, if things in the night can just grab his brother from him, then Dean's seriously got a problem with the guy upstairs.

Sammy's eyes are closed—he's out for the count. His hands are tied together, his limp body hanging from the pipe. His feet and calves skim the floor, telling Dean that his brother was conscious when he'd originally been tied up. Dean shutters and tightens his fists at the very idea of what's been done to Sam. He growls, angry and terrified in the way that only Sammy can make him.

And Sammy isn't out cold after all, because he reacts. He struggles to move his legs, to support his weight, only Dean realizes that Sammy isn't going to be able to get himself to his feet. His legs buckle from under him, causing the rope to swing a little, sending Sam back to his almost knees with a strangled cry.

That cry breaks Dean from his paralysis and he lunges for his brother with a speed he'd have thought himself incapable of. But he always was faster, stronger, braver, when it came to Sammy.

"Sammy, it's okay, it's me. Sammy." Dean's heart is stammering and he cups Sammy's cheek.

Sam pries open one eye with what appears to be great effort. "Dean?" God, he sounds awful.

"The one and only," Dean tries to joke, fishing his pocket-knife out of his pocket.

"Sure am… glad to see you," Sam whispers, his head lulling against his chest. Dean splays his hands out across Sam's chest, needing to feel that heartbeat.

"Listen, Sam—I'm gonna cut you lose, okay? I'm gonna cut you lose. Don't fight it, just let yourself fall, okay? Let yourself fall, I've gotcha. I've gotcha," Dean coos as he cuts Sam's first wrist free. Sam immediately falls, but Dean's got him. Sam tries not to cry, but Dean can feel his every fiber tense.

"It's okay, it's okay," he whispers as he cuts the other binding. Sam is going down now, and Dean eases him down.

He keeps his hand on Sammy's head, cradling his precious burden. He can't carry his brother fireman style, doesn't know what kind of abuse his body's been privy to. What he does know is that the air in here is stale, is suffocating, and as much as he wants to tear this house apart, he needs to get Sammy back to the motel, needs to fix him up. Only after he's certain that Sammy is okay can he can have the revenge he craves.

Carefully, he secures his arm under Sam's knees, cradling his baby brother's head in the nook of shoulder and neck. Sam whimpers as he's hoisted up, and that sound has all of Dean's big-brother instincts swelling in his chest, tightening. "Shhh, you're okay," he murmurs. "I'm here. You're okay."

* * *  
Sam's a fighter; he's a Winchester, and Winchester instinct demands ingenuity, determination, and a deep fight. He's foggy on the details of how he came to be here, just remembers splitting up with Dean at the museum to gather information. Did he even make it to the entrance? He thinks the last thing he saw was Dean's back, watching Dean swagger to the door in a cocky way that let Sam knew that Dean knew he was being watched. Sam remembers smiling.

Everything fades away at that point, and he can only remember this room, being questioned, being sneered at, mocked. "The Boy King," the demons had taunted. "Some Boy King you are, too weak to fight. Too weak to do anything, just waiting on big brother Dean to rescue you."

_Boy King?_

At first, Sam hadn't been sure what hurt worse, the physical abuse or the mental. The taunting, crude remarks about Jess, sweet Jess, burning because of him. The warnings that Dean would be next. A few times, Sam had goaded his captors into violence, needing the words to stop, needing silence that only oblivion could bring him. He'd tried to escape, he really had, but he was just a man. The searing fire in his veins told him that he was being drugged, made weak, made incapable. _Some Boy King you are, Sammy. Burn. Burn, burn, burn!_

Eventually, his body had begun to shut down. All he knew was pain, was hate. The callous fists, the callous taunts of _The Boy King, letting those he loved burn, burn, burn_ circling his consciousness and following him into the darkness that he slipped into…

And then Dean was there.

Dean is carrying him up the stairs, his breath rapid with six-plus feet of Sam in his arms. Dean's always been one for crude remarks, for a solid Winchester approach to "no chickflick moments", and yet Sam has never felt so cherished, so safe, as he does in this moment. These past.. days -_How long as it been?_- have been some of the worst of Sam's life, and to be held so dearly, to be spoken to so lovingly, to be cared for so openly.. something inside Sam breaks, and he sobs. Dean has never been anything but tender with him. Dean carried him from the fire on the night his mother died. Dean pulled him from the flames that consumed Jess. Dean saves him, Dean loves him, and Sam sobs.

Sam feels Dean's grip tighten on Sam. "What's wrong? What's wrong, Sammy?"  
Sam shakes his head, lacking strength for much else. He feels himself being eased to the ground.  
Questioningly, he looks up at Dean. Dean raises a finger to his own lips, glancing out at the kitchen. They aren't alone. His captures… they're there.

Sam wants to help Dean, needs to help his brother… blinks and it's all over. Dean is panting in the kitchen, bloody knife in hand. Sam realizes he's lost time.

Dean looks pained as he drops the knife to the ground with a clatter. He rushes back to his brother, still out of breath.

"Dean?"

"I'm okay, Sammy." But Sam sees the way Dean's left arm hangs at his side. _Hurt._

Dean bites his lip and makes to pick Sam up again.

"No," Sam whispers. "H-Hurt.."

"What's wrong? Where? What?" Dean is crouched in front of Sam now, his eyes wide in his face, and it's rare to see Dean look so young, so frazzled. Dean doesn't panic unless it comes to Sam, but even then, for him not to even try to hide it… it must be bad. Belatedly, Sam wonders how bad off he is, how bad it looks.

"Not me.. your arm."

Dean makes to protest but knows he can't. The fight with the demons left him _relatively_ unscathed… with the exception of his arm. One of the demons had twisted it, and he's certain that he's dislocated his left shoulder. He can't carry Sam.

"Can… I can walk…" Sam huffs, easing his legs closer to him. He still feels the effects of the drugs in his sluggish body, feels the pain blossoming from within, but remains silent. He is aware of Dean helping him to stand, is aware of a raw pain unlike anything he's ever felt, and he screams, truly screams.

* * *

Dean is angry. _Nobody_ fucks with his brother. And so he comes unglued, fighting with a rage he's never felt before. There are a few moments of pain, but he's so pumped on adrenaline that he doesn't even notice. He glances to Sam once, watches his brother pass out. In that moment of distraction, he feels a tug on his left shoulder and is sent to his knees with a yelp. With his right hand, he thrusts the knife full-force into the demon, not even caring about the human host. He knows he should, but all he can think about right now is his brother.

It's over.

He walks to Sam, Sam who realizes Dean is hurt before Dean even does. Sam who nearly gives Dean a heart attack when he says "hurt," leaving Dean to think that he's missed something, that Sam is dying or something.

Dean watches as Sammy's face screws up in pain; Sammy should never look this way.

He eases Sam's arm across his right shoulder, locks his arm around the younger man's waist. He sees Sam's face go white, his eyes go wide, and he screams, honest to God _screams_, and starts to drop to the ground.

"No, no, no," Dean encourages, readjusting and keeping Sam up.

"Stay with me, Sam."

Sam is huffing and puffing and is dragging his feet to the best of his ability, stumbling. Dean's carrying most of Sam's weight, and Sam is still barely walking. Dean feels sick. This is bad. This is really, really bad, and Sam's going down again. Dean readjusts, ignoring the tears pricking at his eyes. Suddenly, he feels incredibly young and overwhelmed. He wants John, wants his dad to help him take care of Sammy.

They're back at the impala, both men sweaty and exhausted. "Gotta… p-pass out," Sam says, and Sam's unconscious before Dean even gets the seatbelt over him. Dean drives the car to the motel, stealing glances to Sam's prone form the entire drive home. Sammy doesn't react to Dean's voice, doesn't move, and when they pull up to the motel, it's all Dean can do not to cry in frustration.

Dean tries to walk Sammy inside, ends up dragging him mostly, and eases him to the bed closest to the door. Normally, that's Dean's bed, but Dean is exhausted from hauling Sammy inside and can't go on much further. He drops to his knees and fishes the first-aid kit out of the nightstand, using only his right hand.

He needs to set his left shoulder, but he can't do it without help.

Seeming to sense his brother's distress, Sammy groggily comes to. Dean doesn't notice at first, is trying to figure out the best way to patch himself up so that he can help his brother. He takes a shaky breath and sits on the bed next to Sam and- _fuck that hurts!_ His eyes dart to Sam. Sam is curled on his side, his hands dropping from Dean's shoulder. The little fucker managed to set Dean's shoulder. Dean feels such pride as he looks at the kid.

"You 'kay?" he asks.

"Yeah, Sammy. And you're gonna be."

He begins to patch his brother up.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: This part of the story takes place in Season 2, right after Sam asks Dean to "watch out for him". This is a continuation of "Saving Sammy, the Boy King." This story makes reference to the previous chapter and to canon._

Triggers for sensitive themes and for attempted suicide. 

* * *

Somewhere in the middle of Dean trying to convince Sam to go out with him, go to the bar right down the street, it dons on him that Sammy hasn't even bothered arguing, hasn't even acknowledged the invitation. He's quiet, sitting on his bed. Sam's been quiet a lot lately, more introspective (although Dean wouldn't have thought it possible).

Dean's getting a little tired of the whole emo-Sam act and, yeah, Sammy's still reeling from the secret of his father's last words to Dean, and he'd be lying if he said that the fiasco from a few months ago, the _Boy King_ taunts, the nearly losing his brother to those demons and the following _Dean, you may have to kill your brother_ from his dad didn't tie in just a little too well together. He knows it must be on Sam's mind, too.

Dean himself is still raw from Sam's drunken request less than a week ago; his brother doesn't drink often, but Dean had come home that night to find his brother drunkenly asking him to _Watch out for me_, to kill him if he had to.

Seemingly reading Dean's thoughts, Sam speaks for the first time all night.

"I need to know that you can do it, Dean, or I will." His voice is quiet and controlled, and Dean can tell Sammy's been trying to work up the nerve to say this for a while, maybe all night.

Best to play dumb, or even better, ignore it.

"The bar is right across the street; it'll be good. We can hustle some extra money, meet some chicks. Or just have fun."

Sam shakes his head sadly.

"I was always hanging around you like a lost puppy, Dean. And now Dad's left you with a brother that you may have to put me down like a rabid dog." Sam's voice breaks as if he's choking on the words.

Dean isn't in the mood for this, wants to go out and get drunk, maybe get laid. Wants to have fun with his brother, wants to _be _brothers and not worry about the future, not even think about the weight of the world that seems to always land right on his shoulders.

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean pours both he and Sam a drink, offers one to Sam. The kid doesn't even hesitate, takes it and downs it in once sip.

_Shit._

Dean follows his lead, downs his, and is already pouring himself another. He holds up the bottle to Sam, but Sam isn't looking at him anymore, is just looking at the carpet in front of him.

"No, Dean. You never had a chance, did you? Mom died… because of _me._ Jess died," Sam deflates at her name, "because of me." His voice is thick, and Dean can see the effort this speech is costing his brother. "And Dad is dead, and his last words…" He risks a look to Dean, a pure ache in his eyes that makes Dean's bones chill, makes Dean take a sip of his drink.

"He said- he said you might have to kill me, Dean. Not lock me up.. not stop me, _kill me_. Dad burdened you with me from the night I killed Mom."

Dean knows how to deal with emo-bitch Sammy, but this is something different, something entirely raw and beyond his grasp because it is just so _wrong_. Because this is Sammy- fucking _Sammy_—and he's no monster, no mutt that needs putting down, and it just doesn't make any sense to him how Sammy can put this guilt on himself, carry this around, makes even less sense that Sam would see himself as Dean's burden. This is _Sammy_. He takes a drink and, fuck it's empty, pours himself some more.

"You never got to do what you wanted- it was always '_take care of Sam, take care of your brother'_. You never had a childhood, Dean, never got to…" Sam stops to breathe.

"You can't tell me you would've chosen this. You have to resent me; I took Mom away, took away any chance of normal."

Sammy's picking at his fingernails, something Dean hasn't seen his brother do since the night he told them he was leaving for Stanford.

Dean feels his tenuous grip on his temper slipping, guzzles another sip of his drink to keep from saying something he's gonna regret, something Sam won't want to hear. Because if he's honest with himself, he's thought about all of this before, and while he doesn't for a _second_ blame Sammy, he's getting sick of having the world on his shoulders and he's sick of Sam going off on their dad. And he's about two sips away from putting Sammy in his place.

"Dad burdened me with you, his _son_, because he couldn't-"

Dean comes unglued.

"What the fuck do you want, Sam!?" Dean slams his drink onto the table- it's whiskey, Sam notices, Dad's favorite. Dean's never been one for whiskey, but ever since Dad died, Dean's been drinking it more and more.

"Don't you fucking dare," he growls, and yeah, yelling at Sammy isn't the best thing, isn't what his brother needs, but Dean's seeing red now. He's angry at his dad, angry at the world, this yellow-eyed son of a bitch, and angry at Sammy for bringing this up, for _always_ bringing it up.

"You think this is what I wanted? Growing up with you and Dad always goin' at it? Always having to play mediator, doing what Dad wanted, being the good son!? Taking care of you when you were too damn stubborn to do what needed to be done? You think I enjoyed all those years you fought with him? You never listened, you never fucking _listened_ to the man, and now that he's dead, you're gonna crucify him some more? I gave up _everything_ for this family. What have you given it?"

Okay, and maybe that last part came out a little harsh, but his anger and the whiskey are brewing together.

Sam looks even more shaken, but he starts again.

"You were always the son he wanted, and I was the son who took his wife away from him, took your chance of normal away… and now he's burdened you again with my death," Sammy says, his face completely white.

Dean picks up his glass, knocks back another two sips, and speaks, a bit surprised at how cold his voice comes out.

"You really that surprised?"

Sammy looks up, meets his eyes now.

"All you ever did was question his orders, bitch to him about everything he'd done wrong, bitch to me about following him. The demon _killed_ our mom, damn near killed you, and you bitched about us trying to fight it. And what, now you're having this little hissy fit because, what, Daddy didn't love you? Dad did everything for this family. He and I gave up _everything_ for you!"

Dean knows he's going too far, but his mouth just keeps on going, his liquid courage propelling him forward. He drains the remainder of his glass.

"It all has to be about you. Always bitching to us about our life. Fuck Sam, the last time you saw the man, you were fightin' with him. And now that he's-" damn, it still hurts to say –" gone, what, now you're moving on to me? And don't even get me started on all this freaky '_Shining' _shit, this _Boy King_ shit. Can you blame us for having doubts about you?"

Dean huffs, goes to pour himself another glass.  
"Dean, I don't think—"

"Fuck you, Sam. Or why don't you use your 'powers' to take the drink away, _Boy King_." He says, because the last thing he needs right now is his pain-in-the-ass brother getting onto him about his drinking. His brain processes, sluggishly, though, and he realizes that he's just crossed the line, just validated everything Sammy feared in himself.

"Sam, I didn't mean—"  
"Do you even love me?" Sammy interrupts, his voice quiet and small.

And that certainly isn't what Dean was expecting.

"What the fuck kind of question is that?! Who fucking took care of you? Who read you stories before bed? Who tucked you in every goddamn night?" His voice is louder than he'd meant for it to be, but he can't stop now. "Who made you dinner, who fucking _raised_ you?!"

Sam seems oblivious to the effect he's having on his brother, his face a picture of sadness, the sort of open sadness that Dean hasn't seen since Jess died.

There's a beat before Sam quickly wipes wetness from his face, takes a shuttering breath.

"I guess.. that answers my question," Sam says, not meeting Dean's eyes. He pushes himself off the bed and crosses the room to the door.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean can't recall ever being this angry… and he knows he hasn't been this drunk in a while.

"That's not love, Dean," he says, his voice small and sad.  
"That's obligation."

Dean flinches and looks to Sam with angry amazement. He goes to stand, wavering a bit on his feet.  
"What the hell do you want from me, Sam? I'm doing the best I can."

Sammy smiles at him, a sad smile. He looks Dean in the eyes, tears spilling over. Sam blinks them away.

"I know, Dean." He's very quiet.  
"I'll never be… I'll never be _that. _I'll never…" he swallows. "I'm not…" Sammy's shaking.  
"I'm not… and will never be the 'Boy Ki-'." He can't even finish, instead, shoots his eyes to the ground.  
"I love you, Dean."

The door closes behind Sam and, stunned, Dean sinks back to the bed.

It's ten minutes before Dean realizes that the gun is gone.

* * *

The gun goes off with a bang as Dean knocks it out of his brother's hands.

Sammy had been gone for maybe ten minutes before Dean had realized that, shit, shit shit shit, the gun, his gun was gone, his gun was _gone_. But Sammy wouldn't do that, right? Sammy wouldn't _kill_ himself.

"Why did you do that!" Sam cries, his voice angry and raw.

Dean's chest is heaving, he's trying to catch his breath, and he's pretty sure he's seeing spots from running so fast. He knows he's gonna have nightmares tonight, maybe from now on. He feels like he's gonna throw up.

_Watching Sammy calmly place the gun under his chin, his hands not even shaking, and Dean screaming for his brother, screaming NO, afraid he wasn't gonna reach him in time, but this can't be right, this can't be._

"Why the fuck did you do that, Dean!?" His voice is scratchy and thick and he's huffing, trying not to cry, and he reaches for the gun that Dean's just knocked out of his hands.

He's aware of Sam scrambling to pick the gun back up, and so as much as he hates to do it, he clocks his baby brother a good one right on the side of the face. Sammy goes down, stunned, falls on his ass. He's not out, just dazed, but it gives Dean the time he needs to reach for the pistol, unload it, and shove it in his pocket. His hands are shaking. Sam pushes against him, tries to get away.

Sam is on his knees, hands fisted in his hair in a white-knuckled grip. Dean uses his hands to circle Sammy's wrists; he squeezes tightly to the point where Sam reflexively releases his locks, to the point where Sam's hands leave his hair and maybe even to the point where the contact frees Sam from the dark place.

"Let me go, let me fucking go!" he screams.

"Not gonna happen."

Sammy fights against him and then, as if a switch is hit, the fight leaves him. He buries a hand in Sammy's hair, takes a rattling breath.

"What the fuck, Sammy, what the fuck were you thinking?" He forces Sam to look at him.

"You selfish bastard," he chokes out, his words angry, but he's still too terrified to be angry. _What if's_ are plaguing him already—what if he'd gotten there two minutes later, what if he'd gone out after all? Would he be looking for his brother in the morning only to find his corpse?

"Why'd you do this, Sammy?" he whispers, clutching his brother to him.

Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean just holds him close. He crushes Sam against him, crushes his hands and body against his chest.

Time passes, and Dean no longer feels like he's gonna throw up, so he gets to his feet, yanks Sam up with him. Sam still hasn't said anything.

He looks at his older brother; Dean's face is white, his eyes are big and shiny, and Sam hates himself for making Dean look that way.

He keeps a rough hand on Sammy's arm as he guides them back to the motel.  
The two are quiet, and if Dean's grip on his brother is hurting him, Sam isn't letting on.

They walk back into the motel, Dean's breathing carefully controlled. He locks the door, checks the salt lines, and sets the gun on the table.

"Not even a fucking call?" Dean's voice cracks in the middle of the question, though it's not really a question.

"What, you just waltz out, decide to waste yourself, call it a day?"

Dean wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans, walks over to his baby brother, and eases them both the bed.

"Sammy," he says, and Sam looks up at him with big hazel eyes looking more broken than Sammy should ever look.

And there it is, Sam realizes. In every _Sammy_; of course Dean loves him. Which makes this even harder, because he's still Dean's burden, still might need to be killed, and he doesn't want to put that on Dean.. Dean's had it hard enough.

Sam reaches for the Jack Daniels on the endtable, takes a big swig, and says it before he even thinks about it.

"What if I can't be saved?" he asks.

"Not gonna happen," comes Dean's reply. And maybe it's a mixture of the alcohol, the words of honesty earlier, or maybe it's seeing his goddamned baby brother ready to blows his brains out so that Dean wouldn't have to, ready to _end his life_ because he felt like he was unwanted, but Dean lets down his guard entirely, something he rarely ever does.

"Nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not while I'm around. You've never been an obligation to me. You were never my burden." He looks away, and it takes everything in him to continue.

"You're my best friend. You're my pain in the ass little brother, okay? God, Sam, don't you ever doubt that. Dad loved you, and I love you, and I would do anything for you. I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt that, Christ, but you can't- you can't _do _shit like this. You can't just fucking- you can't leave me alone like this. I _need _you, Sammy."

Dean can barely see his brother through his blurry vision, but next thing he knows, he's got an arm full of little brother. Dean doesn't even joke about the chick flick moment, doesn't say anything, just holds tight, because he almost lost Sammy tonight.

The unspoken words are thumping in his chest. _I'm gonna save you, Sammy, I swear to God, I'm gonna save you._

Dean can feel his brother's sobs, can tell Sammy's crying. He holds him tight, and feels when Sammy tires, can tell his brother his falling asleep. He eases him on his back, pulls his muddied boots off, and tucks him into bed like when they were little kids.

Only when he's certain Sam is asleep does he sink to his own bed, eyes on his brother for a long moment. He scrubs a tired hand over his face.

_This was too close. This was too fucking close_.

He lays on his side; Dean knows he won't be getting any sleep tonight. And he and Sam have a lot to talk about in the morning.


End file.
